


Transition Phase

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo Amnesty Fills [8]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Strong Language, Uneasy Allies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-05 06:49:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11008176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: The immediate fallout after the rebellion at the Madrid complex is ugly.





	Transition Phase

The facility is a disaster zone.  
  
Of course, when armed guards meet (sort of) trained assassins, naturally things are bound to get hairy.  
  
Callum’s pretty sure he’s fucked up his knee. He’s hobbling down the hallway behind Moussa, and every step is enough to make him wince. Abruptly, Callum slips on a small puddle of blood on the tiled floor, and he reaches out to catch himself on a wall that has no railings or other places to gain traction- thankfully, Moussa catches him by the elbow and helps him steady himself.  
  
“Easy, Pioneer,” He says. “You survived the hordes. It’d be a shame to die now because you fell and cracked your head open.”  
  
“Mm,” Callum agrees vaguely. “Thanks.” The rush from the fight has worn off. He’s exhausted now, legs shaking and head pounding, and he really just wants to sit down for a while. Or, better yet, get some sleep. He feels like if he sits down he might drop off right then and there.  
  
“Keep it together,” Moussa says. “We still have things to do.”  
  
“Right.” Callum’s brain, or at least the bits that hadn’t been mashed and reworked by the Animus, was still lagging behind; part of him was still trying to cope with the fact that he was no longer in prison, he wasn’t currently due for a date with the execution chamber, and Texas was- literally- millions of miles away.  
  
The battle was not without casualties. The halls and cafeteria are a fucking mess. The ones that aren’t dead are injured, and there are a few that fall into that nebulous category between ‘dead’ and ‘alive’. The ones that aren’t injured (or at least, not as badly) are rushing about and trying to help the ones that are.  
  
Callum recognizes one such person pretty quickly as he and Moussa make their way through the cafeteria.  
  
“Nathan.”  
  
Nathan’s sitting on the bench of one of the cafeteria tables, hunched over, blood seeping over his hand, which is currently pressed to his chest. The last few times Callum had encountered Nathan (including that touching heart-to-heart they’d had before Callum’s last trip to the Animus, which had ended with Nathan trying to murder him), he’d noticed that the kid was on the pale-side. But now? Now he looks like a fucking ghost.  
  
Callum had said his name out loud mostly to get Moussa’s attention. After all, Nathan was one of his… Guys? Maybe? Fuck if Callum knew, he’d barely been in this fucking nuthouse a week. And when he hears it, Moussa turns, and his eyes widen when he sees the younger man, and without any greeting or warning, grabs the back of Nathan’s shirt and yanks so that he’s forced to look up at them. “Jesus, kid, what the fuck happened to you?”  
  
Nathan’s got blood all over the front of his shirt. Upon closer inspection, he’s shaking, and Callum’s not a doctor, but he’s pretty sure that the shaking might have something to do with the fact that most of his blood is no longer in his body. The kid squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again, blinks rapidly, and makes a vague grunting sound.  
  
Moussa drops his shirt, shaking his head. “Shit, he’s in bad shape. I’m gonna see if anyone was smart enough to tie up one of the medics instead of shanking them.” He sweeps off, leaving Callum alone with Nathan. Nathan, the guy who tried to murder him a few hours ago.  
  
For a few seconds, Callum just stares at him, uncomfortable. Should he say something? Do something? He’s not used to being nice to people who have tried to kill him (no, this isn’t the first time). For now, maybe he should just make sure the kid doesn’t die until Moussa comes back.  
  
“So yurlive?”  
  
Callum’s taken aback by that; Nathan barely looks conscious, never mind able to speak. It takes him a moment to understand what was said. “Yeah, I’m still alive.”  
  
“Huh.” Then Nathan gingerly lies down on the length of the bench, dragging his legs onto the seat; his eyes shut.  
  
“Whoa, whoa, kid? Kid, don’t go to sleep.” Callum hesitates- should he shake Nathan? He’s kind of afraid to touch him, worried that it would somehow make that hole in his chest worse. Nathan’s eyes are fluttering, like he’s struggling to keep them open and just can’t quite manage it. Carefully, Callum reaches out and gives his shoulder a little shake. “Kid, come on. Wake up.”  
  
“Hnh.”  
  
Well, that’s better than nothing. “Talk, or something.”  
  
“Fugoff.”  
  
Callum snorts. “I would, but I don’t think Moussa would be happy if I just let you croak.”  
  
“You’d be right, Pioneer!”  
  
Moussa’s returned with another Assassin in tow. She makes a bee-line for Nathan, forcing him to roll onto his back and pulling his hands away from the injury. “This is Laila,” He says. “Member of the Indian Brotherhood.” He grins suggestively. “And, as you can see, not half-bad looking, either.”  
  
“Not a chance,” Laila says flatly without looking up.  
  
Moussa shrugs. “I tried.”  
  
Callum’s knee is still pounding. He’s tempted to sit down, but he’s worried he may not get up again if he does. He shifts his weight onto his left leg and watches as Laila rips Nathan’s shirt open and evaluates the injury.  
  
“Ugly,” She says, making a face as she prods the skin around the injury (it’s concerning to notice that Nathan barely reacts to it). “And deeper than I’d like. I need to get him to the infirmary.”  
  
“I know where the wheelchairs are, if you want one,” Callum volunteers, tone only a little sardonic. He’s still more than a little bitter at having been paralyzed for nearly a full day because of Sophia and Alan Rikkin and their fucking Animus.  
  
“That’ll do,” Laila says.  
  
Callum starts to limp off, but Moussa catches him by the shoulder. “I think I’d be faster, Pioneer,” he says. “Where are they?” Callum rolls his eyes.  
  
“Closet near the entrance.”  
  
“Got it.”  
  
Moussa hurries off, and Callum turns back to Laila and Nathan. “Anything I can do to help?”  
  
“Well,” Laila drawls as she stands up and pulls off the gray over-shirt all of the inmates wore, “If you were wearing a shirt, I might have asked you to take it off so I could make a tourniquet, but...” She presses the shirt against Nathan’s injury and nods pointedly to Callum’s unclothed chest. Sue him for not wanting to get it soaked with sweat during his last stint in the Animus. It was easier to run and jump and contort the way he had without it on.  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
“Unless you happen to have any surgical equipment on you, no.” Laila eyes his legs. “You’re favoring your left leg. What happened to it?”  
  
Callum shrugs, looks away. “Banged it. Stepped on it funny. There was a lot going on at the time.”  
  
“Once I’ve dealt with Nathan, I’ll get a look at your knee.”  
  
“It’s fine, really.”  
  
“You won’t be saying that in twenty years when you have arthritis in that knee.”  
  
“More like ten, actually.” Moussa’s back, pushing a wheelchair and grinning like the asshole he is.  
  
“Eat me,” Callum retorts. “I’m not the one who’s going gray.”  
  
“ _Silver_ , Pioneer,” Moussa corrects as he lines the wheelchair up next to the bench. “I’m going _silver._ As in ‘Silver Fox’.” He helps Laila haul Nathan into the wheelchair. She takes hold of the chair and starts off towards the infirmary; Moussa lightly smacks Callum’s shoulder. “Come on, man, gotta make sure you look after that knee before we have to get you a walker.”  
  
[---]  
  
If the hallways and cafeteria were bad, the infirmary is hell.  
  
A few doctors are still around (and alive), nervously treating the injured whilst uninjured Assassins watch them closely.  
  
Laila signals for assistance and a doctor and an Assassin come over. They get Nathan into a bed, and Moussa pushes Callum into a chair next to the bed. There aren’t many beds left open, and clearly they’re reserved for the ones who are in serious need of them. “So, seriously Pioneer, how bad’s the leg? You think you might need a doctor, or what?”  
  
“No,” Callum insists. “Seriously, I’m fine, I don’t… I…”  
  
It’s nothing the average person would flag as alarming. The Assassin who’s come over to help is starting an IV in Nathan’s arm, and it triggers something deep in Callum’s brain: The last time he’d had a needle in his arm, he’d been waking up from his fucking _execution._  
  
He forces himself to look away. Moussa is staring at him with a raised eyebrow. “I’m fine,” Callum insists again, barely managing to keep the stammer out of his voice.  
  
“It’s not Nathan, is it? You know he can’t do shit to you like this, right?”  
  
Moussa has unexpectedly given him a way out of that uncomfortable line of thought. “Yeah, well, he did try to fucking _garrote_ me earlier, so…?”  
  
All Moussa does is laugh. “Damn, you’re more paranoid than I am. That’s good- it’ll keep you alive.” The laugh fades quickly, and Moussa glances around. “Look, I have to check in on a few people. You’ll be alright here?”  
  
It’s a question, not a statement, and Callum realizes that he’s one of Moussa’s guys now too.  
  
“I’ll be fine. Go do whatever you have to do.”  
  
Moussa claps his shoulder, and then heads off at a fast walk out of the infirmary.  
  
Callum sits back in the chair, and feels a low-level sense of anxiety that has surprisingly little to do with the people rushing about and the smell of blood and anti-septic on the air. The full implications of everything that’s happened in the last three days are starting to hit him now, starting to settle in and force him to look at what’s ahead.  
  
In under a week, Callum has gone from a death-row inmate with days to live, to a prisoner/guinea-pig for genetic memory experimentations, to an almost-full-fledged Assassin. He isn’t going back to Texas; his dad is probably really, officially dead, and Callum doesn’t know how to feel about that now; he has no resources, nothing and no one beyond the people in this building to rely upon for support in the future because, as Sophia herself said: As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Callum Lynch is dead and buried.  
  
Callum isn’t unaccustomed to uncertain futures, but the sheer sense of _chaos_ involved in the most likely one ahead of him is terrifying. He feels the familiar, impulsive itch, the fear pushing him to cope with this situation the way he usually does: By running, hiding, and otherwise making incredibly poor life-decisions.  
  
This time, however, Callum has the sense that even if he _does_ run, it won’t solve jack-shit, because if the Assassins don’t kick his ass for running, Abstergo will find him and kill him.  
  
So, in other words, he’s trapped.  
  
Great.  
  
On the bed nearby, Nathan is rallying. Evidently the poking and prodding at his injury is stirring up just enough pain to make him lucid again. “Fuck! That hurts!”  
  
“Sorry,” Laila says, with a sincerity that nonetheless has an air of ‘what can you do?’ “I can’t wait for the local to kick in, kid, you’re bleeding too much.”  
  
Nathan just growls and rolls his head to the side, and suddenly he and Callum’s eyes have met. “The fuck’re you doing here?”  
  
“Wondering if I should pay you back for earlier, you little shit,” Callum knows it’s probably not a great idea to aggravate the dying kid, but he’s still kind of steamed about the whole garrote-incident.  
  
“If you mean to, do it while you can,” Nathan says. “I’m bleeding out.”  
  
“Suck it up, you’ll live.” Callum is really starting to _like_ Laila.  
  
“Is Rikkin dead?” Nathan asks.  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“Either. I’m not picky.”  
  
“They got away.”  
  
“Bugger.”  
  
“You’ll live,” Callum says, and smirks when Laila smiles.  
  
“Bet your ass I will. I want to cut their throats.”  
  
“No throat-cutting for a while yet, I’m afraid,” Laila says lightly with a bit of warning to her voice. “This isn’t a scratch. You’ll need a good long while in bed before you go around stabbing anyone.”  
  
“Ain’t that a shame,” Callum says, with what he hopes is blatantly false regret. Nathan glares at him, and Laila chuckles.  
  
“Watch it,” She says. “I still haven’t looked at your leg yet.”  
  
“I hope it’s broken,” Nathan grumbles.  
  
Callum’s laugh is smaller, less sincere this time. Like it or not, Nathan and he are… Well, they’re members of the same crew now. And even if he does think the kid’s a back-stabbing little prick, they’re going to have to learn to work together if they don’t want to end up killing each other.  
  
Literally.  
  
“Alright kid,” He says. “Whoever recovers first gets to be the one to chase Alan Rikkin down and jam a knife in his spine. How’s about that?” He makes no mention of Sophia. That’s something he’ll have to cope with later.  
  
Nathan’s brow furrows at him curiously, like he’s trying to figure out if this is an olive branch or a sucker-punch in the waiting. Callum hopes the kid is smart enough to figure out that they’re not enemies now.  
  
“Fine. Whatever. You’re older than me; you won’t heal as fast.”  
  
Callum smirks. “Yeah, we’ll see about that, you little shit.”  
  
There’s a goal, something to look forward to, and Callum will start with that.  
  
-End


End file.
